


Some Purebloods Like It Hot

by TobermorianSass



Series: On-dits from the lives of the rich and the obscure [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 07:02:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3641118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TobermorianSass/pseuds/TobermorianSass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sweet little Daphne Greengrass shows her hard-boiled Slytherin sisters up... by taking potshots at the heir to the wizarding half of the Medici family and getting away with almost murder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Purebloods Like It Hot

“The first thing you need’s an angle,” Pansy lit her cigarette, “You know?  You’ve got to have an angle we’re going to work.”

“An angle,” Daphne said faintly.

Mafalda and Pansy glanced at each other and rolled their eyes in unison.

“Everyone has an angle, darling,” Pansy  drawled, “We’ve all got blood on our hands. An angle,” she made two circles with her hands and held them to her eyes, “Shapes what they see.”

“That’s it. That’s the best you can come up with.”

“We’re not the ones who decided that taking potshots at Milo de Medici was a fun way to spend a Saturday night,” Mafalda sipped delicately at her cocktail, “You can trust us, or you can take on the collective force of the Medicis on your own.”

“Sweetheart,” Pansy waved her cigarette around airily, “It’s worked for every single one of us, right down to old Finch-Fletchley.”

* * *

“Mister Finch-Fletchley,” says the young man, earnestly, “Is it true that you’ve killed one hundred people?”

 The change is imperceptible, but a keen observer – or an interested one, at any rate – might notice it. Justin’s face grows grave and his eyes widen slightly. He shakes his head imperceptibly and he has a far-away look about him when he begins to speak.

“I didn’t want to,” he says, sorrowfully, “But when people are out to get one – one does what one has to.”

“Kill people?” the young man prompts him helpfully.

“I still have nightmares,” says Justin, “I hate violence of any kind – ask any of my friends.”

“The ones you go shooting with in Scotland?” someone else remarks dryly.

Justin smiles sunnily, “Setting those birds free is the greater cruelty –“

* * *

“I personally favour the Smith method to Finch-Fletchley’s posh boy act,” said Mafalda, “It has more polish to it.”

“It takes a certain kind of daring to pull it off though,” Pansy replied, thoughtfully, “I’m not sure if Daph could.”

“Maybe if Blaise hadn’t been in the room as well,” she admitted.

“On the other hand,” Pansy stubbed her cigarette out, “It _is_ Blaise.”

* * *

“What prompted you to take up such a dangerous and illegal profession?” a young man – one of the _Prophet_ ’s interns, probably – asks him.

“You know - the regular,” says Zacharias Smith, evidently bored by the proceedings, “Family conflict, an Oedipal complex – some kind of experience to really show me the _meaning_ of life, show me who I was.”

“You say in your biography that you were involved in the manufacture and smuggling of Fairy Dust,” says another intern – definitely the _Sol_ , Zacharias thinks, with that kind of sharp weasel face, “But most of the ingredients for Fairy Dust, according to the ICW, are exported from Mexico and Eastern Europe.”

“It was a _special_ kind of Fairy Dust,” says Zacharias, “A very rare strain, where they mixed cocaine along with the crystalline form of Elixir of Euphoria and powdered Salvia Divinorum from Mexico – really potent stuff, all the rage in the early noughties.”

“I’ve never heard of it,” the journalist from the _Sol_ says firmly – and bravely, “And the ICW report says that most Fairy Dust comes into Britain from Eastern Europe.”

“Yes,” Zacharias Smith replies, without batting an eyelid.

“You agree with them?” the man from the _Prophet_ ventures.

Zacharias shrugs, “All of magical Britain’s Fairy Dust comes from the Czech Republic.”

“But you just said –“ the _Sol_ man's brow wrinkles in confusion, “What?”

“All of magical Britain’s Fairy Dust comes from the Czech Republic,” Zacharias replies patiently, “All of our drugs, for that matter.”

“But you said you were a drug smuggler in Colombia.”

Zacharias Smith stares blankly at him, “Did I now?”

“It’s in your book!” the man from the _Prophet_ cries in frustration.

Zacharias smiles far too widely at them – and at a glowering Rita Skeeter seated at the back of the hall – “I’ve never been to Colombia.”

He watches in satisfaction as the members of the press scratch their head over that puzzle.

“The Czech Republic on the other hand,” he says, “Awfully nice country. Spent six months in their prison system.”

* * *

“ _Can_ you pull off audacious?” Mafalda wondered, considering polished, perfect Daphne Greengrass – a stark contrast to both her and Pansy, in their fantastic clothes and manicures and ridiculous heels and bilious green fingernails. Daphne Greengrass was the sort of person who got her picture in _Quidnunc?_ with columnists calling her tastefully fashionable. Not the sort who got called “bold” or “striking”.

Then again, it always was the quiet ones you had to watch out for.

“There’s always the Bole method,” said Pansy.

Daphne rolled her eyes, “I doubt persecution mania is going to work against the might of the Medicis.”

Pansy raised her eyebrows expressively, “A mere Greengrass against the mighty Medici?”

* * *

“If I’d wanted money,” says Bole, “I would have gone to Gringotts. If I’d had to steal, I would have _certainly_ done better than a crudely forged check from the Minister and a slip for 1000 galleons to be transferred from the Muggleborn Scholarship fund to my Gringotts account.”

“Are you saying there’s some sort of agenda against you?” asks the man from the _Sol_.

“I’m not saying there is, but there’s definitely been a shift in the Ministry,” he answers, “And I know that some of my colleagues resent me for my family – my house – my neutrality during the war –“

“D’you mean Justin Finch-Fletchley, former leader of the Muggleborn Resistance?”

“No comment,” says Lucian, but the way he raises his eyebrows expressively is comment enough.

* * *

“If all else fails, there’s always the Malfoy method,” said Mafalda.

“My father will hear of this?”

“Oh my dear,” Pansy grinned wickedly, “Think less 1995 and more 1998.”

* * *

“Mr Malfoy,” the judge says patiently, “We’re all waiting.”

“I’ve never hurt anyone,” Draco – well Malfoys didn’t _whine_ , but on anyone else this would almost certainly be called a whine.

“But you are in fact a Death Eater.”

He looks miserably at his mother, who shakes her head imperceptibly.

“Yes, dammit yes,” he blurts out and then furiously –and obviously – wipes his tears away with the sleeve of his robes.

* * *

“Poor Draco,” said Daphne, not sounding concerned in the least, “How humiliating.”

“Overrated,” Mafalda waves her hand airily, “Barely dented that impenetrable Malfoy thick-skin,”

“Either way,” Pansy frowned at her fingernails, “It makes it easier to control him when he’s getting too full of braggadocio.”

“So what’s your angle going to be?” Mafalda asked Daphne.

“You’ve been very helpful, but I’ve already got the matter in hand,” she smiled sweetly as she got up and fastened the clasp on her cloak, “But I do appreciate your help.”

“ _Rude_ ,” said Pansy, once Daphne was out of earshot, “What do you think about gold snakes on a bright green varnish?” She held out her hands, for Mafalda to examine her nail varnish.

“If you’re _daring_ ,” Mafalda replied, “Though personally _I_ would go for silver.”

“Gold it is,” said Pansy.

* * *

The days leading up to Daphne Greengrass’ sentencing are shrouded in the kind of secrecy peculiar to the gossip rags; aware that Something is Afoot, but unsure what precisely that Something is.  There is plenty of speculation and there isn’t a single day that goes by without at least _one_ of the tabloids wondering how the demure Ms Greengrass could have shot Milo de Medici. Daphne is photographed but never while posing; always by the pap, always in sunglasses and clinging to the arm of either Theodore Nott or Adrian Pucey. There’s one photo of her coming out of the Inimitable Livers with Blaise which prompts all kinds of wild rumours about this actually being a Zabini-Medici business matter with this poor darling heiress caught in the middle of it. Daphne says nothing and remains aloof from the press. She _floats_ around, with the kind of airy grace that makes the press certain that their darling English rose could _never_ have shot this Italian scoundrel – the worst kind of playboy, by all accounts – without good reason.

Pansy Parkinson grudgingly admits that perhaps delicate little Daphne Greengrass needs no help from her far more hard-boiled Slytherin sisters. The papers have more or less declared her innocent without her so much _breathing_ a single world in their direction.

She definitely does _not_ wish that she had Greengrass’s ability to command the press without exerting any noticeable effort.

Theodore Nott, meanwhile, has spent more time playing chess with Pucey than he has in the past … fifteen years or so. It takes two chess games for Daphne to select her wardrobe and do her toilette on a good day. This, not counting any mishaps that might occur along the way. He’s becoming an expert at chess and he’s actually starting to beat Pucey now. They might even be forced to take up Quidditch soon at this rate.

He smiles and nods along at Pansy, dimly aware that he can’t let her know how much effort Daphne puts into conveying that perfect mix of pathos and ingenuousness – or the fact that she anonymously tips the paps off to her schedule for the day – because that would be betrayal.

He also conveniently forgets to mention that Daphne and Narcissa Malfoy have been spending an unusual amount of time in each others’ pockets. Daphne has every right to visit her sister's mother-in-law (though, personally, Theodore believes co-conspirator might be a better description of their relationship) after all, without Pansy poking her nose in everywhere.

Theodore smiles absentmindedly at Pansy and hopes it makes her go away.

It does.

* * *

It’s the _trial of the century_ , which either means Daphne is now more infamous than Bellatrix Lestrange or else that the tabloids have notoriously short memories. Mafalda favours the latter explanation, though she does think Daphne’s perfect English rose act is just a _little_ bit too convincing to be the Real Thing.

But, you know, one has to keep one’s mouth shut; solidarity and all that.

Still, the turnout is exceptional. Exceptional enough that at least half The Wixenomist office is down here – right all the way up to the assistant-editor, Miles Bletchley, who’s trying very hard to pretend that he’s only here because of Serious Journalistic Business. Which is rubbish, of course, since she’s here on the behalf of the British section of the magazine.

She sticks her tongue out of him and he pretends not to see.

Even the Malfoys are there, though Astoria is with her mother and father in seats nearer the front of the courtroom.

At ten minutes past nine, Milo de Medici sails in, saturnine and handsome and his head held high, even though his arm is in a sling. Or perhaps despite it.  He’s followed by a harried looking posse of witches and wizards and then Blaise Zabini, who strolls in lackadaisically and slides easily into the stand where his mother and father are already seated. Griselda Marchbanks glares impressively at him.

“Mr Zabini,” she says, “It is improper for a witness for the defence to sit in on the sentencing.”

“With due respect, ma’am,” he says, placidly, “I’m neither a witness for the defence or the prosecution; I'm merely an interested party who might be called upon to give testimony should either of the parties call upon me.”

Griselda Marchbanks glares at Blaise, harrumphs disapprovingly and then turns to the more pressing matter of the fact that they are now _fifteen_ minutes behind schedule and there is still no sign of the defendant.

It is at this moment that Daphne Greengrass makes an Entrance, with Theodore Nott and Adrian Pucey in close attendance.

Mafalda has to hand it to her. Any advice she and Pansy could have given her would have been redundant. Because in no version of reality would either of them have considered dressing Daphne in bleached Nundu furs, or for that matter, in sleek black ‘twenties inspired robes with a _diamond_ choker to offset what would have otherwise been a nearly dowdy outfit. But here she is and carrying it off as easily as though it’s her standard fare – demure dark green or white robes.

She slides easily into the dock and blows a kiss at Milo and Mafalda wishes she’d picked a better seat, because _bloody hell_ , this looks promising.

* * *

Pansy is dimly aware that her mouth has been hanging open for the past hour and she really ought to close it, because she _isn’t_ an innocent little dove attending her first trial.

Daphne Greengrass. In Nundu furs and literally dripping diamonds. Blowing a kiss at Milo de Medici. She doesn’t know what to make of it. Most people choose one method and stick with it. Daphne appears to be pulling everything all at once and what’s more, _making it work_. Judging from the review of the evidence, she’s played posh totty, persecuted young English rose and bewildered ingénue at different turns with immense success. Much more than Mafalda or her had expected.

This is the last act. Pansy hopes it’s a bloody good one.

“- the court has heard evidence concerning the charges that on the first of August 2015, you did willfully and knowingly shoot the appellant resulting in injuries to his ribs, lungs and his arm. You have pleaded guilty, but have sued that the charges be reduced from ‘attempted murder’ under Section J.X.iv of the Criminal Code to ‘assault’. We have heard evidence that favours this position and evidence which undermines it. We will now break to confer and reach a final judgement -”

“One moment, ma’am,” says Daphne

Griselda Marchbanks scowls forbiddingly at her, “Do you have something to add to your statement?”

“I am afraid,” says Daphne, slowly rising from her seat – _shedding her furs, nice move_ , Pansy notes, _also bare arms and a diamond snake armband, of course, what did I expect_? – “that I have not been entirely honest.”

“ _Bloody fuck_ ,” Pansy swears, inadvertently combining _bloody hell_ and _holy fuck_ in her horror.

Her neighbour, an elderly lady in an obnoxious hat with cherries on them frowns disapprovingly at her and then turns away, lips pursed, no doubt in horror at The Younger Generation and its Lack Of Civility.

“Not entirely honest?” Marchbanks repeats, bewildered.

“You see,” Daphne fiddles with an oversized diamond ring – _so many diamonds. So. Many. Diamonds._ – “I was advised, poorly, by my legal counsel – whom I have now dismissed,” she looks up at the Wizengamot, and, Pansy is certain, flutters her eyelashes most convincingly, “He told me that the art of the duel was firmly forbidden under English Law, but Blaise,” she glances at him through her long eyelashes and smiles coyly, “was most helpful and informed me that the duel is banned only in muggle law, but the wizarding code – both criminal and civil – permit it.”

“I don’t see –“

“So you see, ma’am,” says Daphne, “I was forced to conceal the truth.”

Pansy glances at Milo de Medici and is pleased to note that he seems just as bewildered by this turn of events as everyone else – his legal counsel looks on the verge of tears.

The Smith method it is, then.

Griselda Marchbanks leans forward and it seems as though the whole court leans forward along with her, “What was the truth child?”

“Well,” Daphne blushes artfully, “Milo – Mr Medici – was being very offensive that night and in the course of events, he made _insinuations_ about my honour –“

The collective eye of the crowd swivels towards Milo de Medici who glowers at them in response, clearly displeased by the direction in which this is headed.

“- so naturally,” Daphne continues, serenely, “I felt compelled to challenge him to a duel. He refused, at first and insulted me further and laughed at me. Now,” she pauses, “I was incensed, naturally –“

Everyone nods their heads and Pansy barely suppresses a giggle at the sight of Griselda Marchbanks so obviously fascinated by this fabrication.

“- and I said that perhaps _he_ was the coward. After all –“

“ _Lies_ ,” Milo howls, “ _All lies_.”

Griselda Marchbanks bangs her gavel hard, “Please Mr Medici, there will be a time for objections!”

“After all,” Daphne says firmly, “I was _not_ the one who refused to duel, or the one casting about insults. This incensed him and he snatched up his wand and declared that he would fight me _then and there_.”

She has them all sitting on the edge of their seats now.

“I reached for the nearest weapon, which happened to be a 17th century silver duelling pistol and then –“

“And then?” Bones prompts her, much too excited by this tale for a respectable elder of the Wizengamot.

Marchbanks frowns at him and he cowers, a little. Griselda Marchbanks, Pansy thinks admiringly, is the sort of woman every hard-boiled Slytherin girl should aspire to be. Well her, or Narcissa Malfoy.

“Continue Ms Greengrass.”

“And then I shot him,” she says, “But it was during a duel.”

“ _Puttana_ ,” shrieks Milo,  as the courtroom erupts into excited chatterin, “Filthy lies!”

Daphne looks helplessly at the Wizengamot, Milo’s outbreak a clear indicator of the precise nature of the indelicate insults and insinuations he’d made about her.

“Mr Medici,” Marchbanks bangs her gavel several times, “Silence _please_! _Silence!_ If you have objections to this version of events, you may present them reasonably and _without resorting_ to the use of insulting and indelicate language. Whatever Ms Greengrass’ faults, you will abide by court protocol and refrain from using this sort of language.”

“ _How can you take her seriously_?” he hisses, “If she was not lying, why didn’t she mention this, this _duel_ before?”

Daphne rolls her eyes, “You heard, Milo darling, my lawyer told me it was illegal and I had no idea that duelling was still legal.”

“ _Vai a –_ “

“ _Mr Medici_!”

“ _She’s lying_.”

“Well,” Owen Bones says reasonably, “We do have a witness who was in the room at the time who can clear this up for us.”

Everyone turns to look at Blaise.

There’s no way, Pansy thinks, this wasn’t planned beforehand. It’s precisely the sort of thing Blaise would have done. Not that Daphne hasn’t been carrying it off marvellously, but it hardly seems in her vein.

“Mr Zabini,” says Marchbanks, “Will you please take the stand?”

Blaise smiles enigmatically and _unfolds_ himself, making his way over to the stand. He refuses to look at either Daphne or Milo.

“You tell them,” Milo says excitedly, “You tell them _the truth_.”

“Can you corroborate or disprove Ms Greengrass’ statement?”

Blaise pauses for a moment before he answers smoothly, “There was a duel. Ms Greengrass is quite right. There was some confusion over whether duels were legal or not and in conclusion, she felt that it might be better to leave the circumstances out. Imagine,” he glances quickly at Milo de Medici and then back at the Wizengamot, “How it would reflect on our various familial interests.”

Daphne smiles demurely where she sits.

* * *

“Fun, isn’t it?” Smith slides into the seat next to her, “Anyway, strange thing isn’t it, Narcissa Malfoy attending this hearing, on your left, carefully – not, _for fuck’s sake could you be any more obvious_?”

“Piss off, Smith,” Mafalda pokes him with her quill, “Go bully someone else.”

“Daphne’s really delivering on the goods isn’t she?” he glances at where Narcissa Malfoy is sitting with Draco, whose shoulders are shaking uncontrollably, even though – to his credit – his face is completely expressionless, “Justin has no _idea_ what he’s missing.”

“Nice to see your dedication to the law.”

“No one’s here for the law,” he replies, “We’re all here for the spectacle. I know you and Pansy talked with her,” he leans close, “The Smith method always delivers.”

She whacks him with her notebook.

* * *

“ _You_ ,” Milo sputters ineffectively.

“ _Mr Medici!_ ”

Blaise raises his eyebrows, “I believe that Ms Greengrass was well within her rights to challenge him to a duel. She is, of course, possessed of certain sensibilities and a disposition that abhors indelicacy of any sort. I, however,” he shrugs, “Am not so delicate and would happily repeat his words to her here so you might decide whether she was within her rights to challenge him.”

“That would be helpful,” Marchbanks agrees, “In helping our decision.”

“He began by calling her a whore – which isn’t surprising, he called her this in the presence of the court – and then he declared that he would very much like to – how do I translate it?“ he pauses and makes a show of translating the phrase on the spot, “Ah –“

“It’s true,” Milo interrupts, his face far too white, “About the duel.”

 _Well_. Pansy makes a mental note to ask Daphne about this later.

“I see,” says Griselda, in a tone that suggests she clearly disapproves of the young Italian, “You agree there was a duel and she shot you during the duel.”

“Yes.”

“Well,” Griselda surveys the court room grimly, “This certainly complicates matters. And you plead not guilty under our duelling laws?” she asks Daphne.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Well,” says Griselda, looking at the rest of the Wizengamot, “I suppose we must put this to the vote.”

Daphne Greengrass sinks into her seat and folds her hands on her lap, the paragon of virtuous fragility.

Pansy isn’t in the least bit surprised when they acquit her.

* * *

Six months later, Pansy and Mafalda are having drinks together at the Inimitable Livers when Adrian Pucey, smart in dark green robes, comes over to where they’re sitting, brandishing two cream-coloured envelopes.

“Wedding invitations,” he says, “One each. We’ll be delighted to see you there.”

Mafalda turns the envelope over and nearly spits out her drink when she sees the names on the invitation.

“Milo de Medici,” she says in a flat voice, “She’s marrying _Milo de Medici_.”

“They get along very well,” he replies seriously, though his eyes are twinkling mischievously in a way that suggests that there’s Something More to this.

“Hang on,” Pansy frowns, “Aren’t you and Teddy and Daph, you know?”

 The gleam in Adrian’s eye as he says, “We’ve come to an arrangement,” worries Pansy.

“She _shot_ him,” says Mafalda, “In his _rib cage_.”

“Ah, that reminds me,” says Adrian, “Daph asked me to tell you. She wants at least ten per cent of your earnings on the whole biz. You can transfer it directly into her Gringotts account – Blaise will help you with that,” he drums his fingers on the bar, “And oh, next time you have one of your little gossip sessions, I’d advise you to find somewhere private, especially if you’re going to call people,” he frowns thoughtfully, “Ah yes, ‘boring old crones, frittering away their tame lives in obscurity’. Sometimes the walls have ears. Also, she'd thank you to stop calling her triumph the result of using the Smith method, after all Smith's fabrications pale in comparison. I think it's fair, don't you?”

He smiles rather too broadly at their shocked faces, touches his hand to his forehead in a mock salute and leaves them without waiting for an answer.

“Bloody hell,” says Pansy, signalling for the bartender, “Another one and double the firewhiskey. Close your mouth darling, it isn’t becoming.”

Mafalda downs her drink in one go and winces, “I think,” she says, “From now on, we meet at my apartment.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Pansy raises her glass, “And little Daphne Greengrass.”

 

 

 


End file.
